


Fate Line

by masteremeraldholder



Category: ARMS (Video Game)
Genre: Bracelets, Don't Like Don't Read, Face Painting, Fluff, LET THE OLD MAN GET SOME LUV, M/M, Mutual Pining, coyle says like one swear word but it's not that bad, hand holding, whaddya expect from her i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 20:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14316405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masteremeraldholder/pseuds/masteremeraldholder
Summary: But Misango just gives a closed mouth grin, his radiant eyes do most of the smiling, and Max wants to touch the sloping corners of his mouth, wants to feel the septum ring in his nose between his fingertips. But of course, that isn’t very gentlemanlike.Misango tells him, “Very well said,” and then squeezes his hand (which is surely sweaty by now) tighter. “You sir, have a way with words.”He really doesn’t, Max thinks. But he can’t possibly turn down such a sweet compliment from such a sweet man, now can he?[Max makes an impromptu visit to the Misangan village for an analysis with Dr. Coyle, and soon finds himself more than intrigued by the not-so-quiet spirited fighter]





	Fate Line

**Author's Note:**

> lol, i picture max being the ultimate southern gentleman, complete with southern accent and all (ﾉ)´∀｀(ヾ) this is really rather self indulgent, totally based on max’s comment about misango during his grand prix. no flames, don’t like, don’t read!!
> 
> here’s some stuff you need to know: max is an orphan, coyle’s first name is her va’s first name. Also, the language the misangans speak is maori. misango’s spirit name is spirit. nice and easy.

“Chiromancy,” Misango tells him. “It’s rather simple, actually,” And then he holds out his hand for Max’s. “Which is your dominant hand?”

Either Misango’s just naturally this kind or he’s one smooth cat, but Max is positively smitten by this man. How could he not oblige to such a person?

Max raises his right hand, Misango takes it with a gentle grip, peers at his palm with utmost diligence. “Earth hands,” He says. “Practicality. Level-headedness.” Max isn’t sure how much of that he really has. “Your head line… You prefer physical tests over mental tests.” That one’s actually true.

Misango traces his finger from the base of Max’s palm out to right above his thumb. It tickles. Is it bad that he’s still ticklish?

“A long life line… You  _ are _ very enthusiastic, I presume?” The corners of Misango’s lips turn up ever so slightly, his green eyes bright. And then it hits Max. That was a joke. Wow.

Max gives a late, tentative chuckle, and it sounds exactly how he expected it to. Odd and very out of place.

Misango continues his reading, spouts off some other frighteningly true facts, then he stops abruptly, “You have a fate line.”

Max stiffens. “That’s bad?”

“No,” Misango shakes his head. His luscious locks sway as he does so. It occurs to Max that he’s probably looking too hard. “Not many have them is all. But yours… You are… deeply controlled by fate.”

Max wants to scoff. But really, that’s Donna’s sorta thing. Still, as he thinks,  _ really _ thinks, he realizes that once again, Misango’s prediction was spot on. He is moved easily by events beyond his control. That was, after all, how he ended up in there in the Misangan village.

…

The off-season of the ARMS league was marked by lower views and reception in general. (Income as well, though no one wanted to say it.) It had been fine in the past, everyone hit a rough patch every once and awhile. It was understandable.  _ That _ was why Max had a hard time understanding the reason for a sudden expedition to a foreign place.

Donna encouraged that it was to further the education of the ARMS gene, but that smelled like a lie. Getting firsthand information to use for a new experiment seemed more like it.

Regardless, a telegram was sent to the Misangans, that was the only way they could be reached. A prompt confirmation was sent back to the league, and plans for the trip were quickly underway. It all occurred rather swiftly, really.

“Dear God, are we there yet?” Donna had asked once they’d gotten off the plane and were on a bus heading deep into the wilderness. She wiped at her slick forehead with a manicured hand, which did nothing but make her face appear more splotchy than it was. “I can’t take much more of  _ this. _ ”

_ This  _ was apparently the heat, the overwhelming,  _ exhausting _ heat, which everyone was well aware of before the trip. But actually experiencing it? That was an entirely different thing.

Max dabbed his own slick forehead with a handkerchief, promptly offered it to the Doctor with a smile. Small acts of kindness went a long way, Max had learned long ago.

Coyle noticed the chaste cloth, and frowned at it, then at Max, before she said in a very dismissive tone, “Tch!  _ Please. _ ”

Yikes. Even in a pleasant utopia like such, her grudge still existed. It was understandable, though. Not everyone was flattered by humble pigheadedness.

The tense atmosphere didn’t dissipate until they were off the bus, trekking through an area inaccessible by vehicles. Even then, Max couldn’t shake the feeling that Donna would take out her anger at the climate on him. Why had he agreed to this again?

Misango was at the village entrance when they finally made it there an hour later, apparently to greet the weary travelers. It was rather touching. Not only that, but he  _ looked _ different. More in his environment.

He was free of his mask and face paint which was shocking. Must have been for special occasions only.

And it was at that sight that Max remembered when he first met Misango. How he thought this had to be one of the loveliest people he’d ever met. Soft-spoken. But obviously so talented. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, Max wanted to record it. Listen to it over and over.

He was gorgeous. Thick, messy curls that he constantly tucked behind his ears. Sun-kissed skin dotted lightly with freckles. A gold septum ring. Max was dumbstruck. (Still is, he should say.)

“Welcome friends,” Misango greeted them with a wave, then turned to Max and Coyle. “Old and new. I hope your travels w—”

Donna cut him off with a sharp snap of her fingers. “Let’s cut to the chase, sweetums. You gonna let us in or not? My feet are  _ screaming. _ ”

It should’ve been pointed out that she had on  _ heeled _ hiking boots, but Max definitely did cherish his life, so he instead told Misango, “Pardon her curtness, if you will,” Followed it with a debonair wink for good measure. “Donna and the sun don’t get along too well, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, like you can talk,  _ bastard, _ ” She scoffed, plowed right on past Misango into the village. To think today had started out fairly decent.

Luckily, Misango didn’t seem to have taken offense to Donna’s  rudeness . He invited everyone else in, courteous as ever. A great host indeed.

And as Max thinks now, fate  _ had _ led him far away from his usual off-season spot of scouting rookies across the globe. And he’d gone along with it. Who was he to test fate, after all?

…

Max sat on the lush grass, still studying his palm after Misango’s reading. He never knew so much could be told about him just from his hand. Baffling to say the least.

He traces the same line Misango had earlier. His fate line. Was it fate that he was here? Or was he overthinking it?

“Would you like another?”

Max jumps. He looks up, up, up. Toned legs, a broad chest, and a very chiseled face.  _ Misango. _

“‘Scuse me?”

“A reading,” Misango sits down beside Max, voice light. “I, myself am not the best at them. Perhaps you’d like to ask the elders.  _ Nga kaumatua. _ Or the Chief. They are better at them than I.”

Max shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, shakes his head rather vigorously. He probably looks out of his mind. (Feels that way too.) “No, I’m good, thank you.” He definitely does  _ not _ need more confusion in his life right now.

* * *

 

They start fresh the next day. Members of the lab venture to  _ Temple Grounds,  _ which was actually nowhere near the village, accompanied by Misango. The league stays behind, begins a more personal experiment. Asking the elders what the gene means to them.

Most of the elders don’t speak English or Japanese, so there’s obviously that drawback, but the children know a bit of English luckily.

The league goes about asking a few questions, the children then translate and tell the elders. Before long, they have a decent understanding of the gene to their culture.

It’s an honor, they all emphasize that. Pride and dignity come with the role, and well, Max finds that nothing short of amazing. That one person held an entire village on their back.

But if he was being honest, he’d expected nothing less from Misango.  _ Extraordinary. _ Gah, just thinking of him brought a smile to Max’s face.

And that same smile almost blows his cover.

When he glances up, one of the older ladies is watching him with this look on her face. Smug. Almost as if she knows that he’d been smiling from thinking about a  _ certain someone _ .

Then she says something. All of the Misangans nod in agreement. Uh oh.

“Wh-what’s she sayin’?” Max leans over, asks the small boy sitting beside him.

“Huh? Oh!” Then he snickers, and Max thinks it’s all over now. “ _ Tupuna _ says you’re pretty good-looking for a pale face!”

_ Oh. _

Max flushes, stutters, “Ah— Uh… Thanks?”  Although graying hair, crow’s feet, and wrinkles in general were not Max’s description of  _ good-looking _ . (Unless that gray-headed, wrinkly person was Misango. Scratch that.)

They all laugh, the league included, and Max only flushes even more. At least she hadn’t said anything about Misango. Phew.

The lady says something else, to which the boy then says,  “No, I’m not asking him if he has a girlfriend!”

Oh, dear.

Max swallows. Politely excuses himself.  Just as Max has weaseled away from the surprisingly tight grasp of the elders, Misango, Donna, and the lab members come through the village entrance. 

Thank the lord.

Max rocks on his heels awkwardly, not wanting to break out in a sprint towards Misango. Obvious much.

It’s not much better when Misango approaches him. Because his voice cracks.  “Y-you’re back!” 

“Yes?” Misango appears puzzled, probably from Max’s unnecessary loudness. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no! I’m— It’s… nothing.”

“I see… Did you get everything you needed?”

“Yes, indeed.” Everything and much,  _ much _ more.

Misango seems to contemplate this for a bit before he says, “Come. Walk with me.”  Max does without hesitation.

He lumbers along noisily while Misango glides beside him almost soundlessly. Sheer talent. 

Misango hadn’t said much about where they were going, so Max doesn’t ask. He’d walk anywhere with this man to be quite blunt.

“We are here.” Misango stops, Max does the same. They’re under a rather shady tree near the village edge. It’s quiet. And also decorated with misanga bracelets. Just as quaint as the village.

Misango sits. Tentatively, Max plops down beside him and proceeds to ramble. That’s what he does best when he’s anxious, after all. “This’s a mighty fine tree. What’s it called? Nice and shady, I’ll say. Reminds me of this time I came across a b—”

Misango doesn’t seem perturbed by Max’s motormouth as he pulls out an unfinished bracelet, sets it on Max’s knee. “I started it during my journey earlier today… But I thought that you’d like to finish it… And keep it.”

Whoa. Was he being serious?

“Really?”

Misango nods. Max finds the little twitch at the corner of his lips adorable.

He glances down at the bracelet. It’s blue and gold, the same color as his usual bodysuit, however, it’s rather simple compared to the more intricate ones that he’d seen around the village. But to Max, it’s just as beautiful.

Max fidgets with it, honestly. He  _ knows _ that he’ll mess it up. His fingers are thick and clumsy, not lean and fluid like Misango’s.

But he doesn’t want to be rude, so he starts to braid it, albeit slowly. Misango coaches him through the tough parts, readjusts his fingers from time to time. Max’s breath hitches at every little touch.

It takes him awhile to finish, it’s a wonder Misango even stays there as he practically destroys his culture. But he gives nothing but encouragement. Max observes his handiwork when he finally finishes.

Sloppy, really. The colors don’t line up in some spots and the knotting is rather loose.  _ Ugh. _

Still, Misango takes it from his hands, ties it gently around his wide wrist. Max is flattered.

Even more so when Misango’s touch drifts down to his hand. Max thinks he’s dreaming. And then he’s fretting over hand holding like a preteen. But Max has to say, Misango’s hand is a great one to hold. Warm. And he does this thing, runs his thumb over the back of Max’s hand lightly, and then taps his thumb.

It’s soothing.

Misango’s other hand trails up his ARM, to his face. Max is suddenly aware of his saggy cheeks, sunken-in eyes. Is this what Misango sees?

(It’s vain, he knows. To think of only his looks. But if society has taught him anything, it’s that people do judge based on looks.)

His actions say otherwise; the gentle touches to Max’s nose, then his dark hair. Frosted tips. He toys with a lock that bounces back into place.

Misango smiles as he studies the flimsy curl, and then, “Pardon me… Feel free to stop me.”

Max knows he won’t. He’s far too weak. Putty in the hands of a beautiful man.  _ Sad, _ Donna’d say.

“It’s just,” Misango’s hand falls from Max’s hair. “You are… fascinating.”

Again with the fancy word choice. Max wouldn’t describe himself as that, maybe Misango, but not himself. He’s… goofy and loud. Not fascinating in the least.

“I am sure that sounds strange,” Misango’s cheeks are flushed, and while Max would normally think it’s adorable, it’s not because he’s flustered. He’s ashamed.

“N-no!” Max steadies his shaking hands on Misango’s. (And if that doesn’t make him even more jittery.) “Not at all… If I’m being honest, well… I think you’re mighty fascinatin’ too.”

The worry on Misango’s face disappears, and that soft closed mouth smile returns. Good lord, that thing was crippling.

Slowly, Misango’s hand finds its way back into Max’s hair. And any thought Max had of dying his gray ends vanishes.

It occurs to him that maybe,  _ just maybe, _ he’s becoming far too enamored with this man.

* * *

 

“Would you ever think of doing a documentary? With footage, I mean.”

At that, Misango’s placid expression sours. But even then, Max thinks he still looks lovely. His dark, smooth skin free of paint glistens under the moonlight.

It started as a quick nightly walk, but quickly turned into a sightseeing trek with Misango showing Max all of his favorite sights around the village. (Spirit’s home. A cliff overlooking the entire village.) It was quite interesting considering that Max spent majority of the tour staring at Misango. He really was a gorgeous, intellectual being.

Now on the way back, Max asks the question he knows Donna’s been itching to ask since they got there.

“I imagine it would be… informative… But exploiting my people’s secrets. My culture?” Misango shakes his head. “I’d never forgive myself.”

And though Max can’t directly relate, he can understand. How if a rookie he’d been training got injured on his watch. The guilt he’d feel for allowing them to get hurt. That has to be what Misango’d feel.

“I know what you mean,” Max says. And then, “I, uh, sure do appreciate you lettin’ us visit. It was mighty kind of ya.”

Misango smiles, and there goes Max’s composure. His smiles were scarce and far between back home, but here? His smile was second nature. “You have a good soul. I trust you.”

“Just you?”

“The elders do. And the children have taken a liking to your friend.”

Max grins, thinking of Donna surrounded by small children who were fascinated by her makeup, “She’s sure happy about that.”

“What about you?” Misango asks. “Are you… happy?”

It’s a darn good question, Max thinks. Rather odd given the approach, though.

He’s happy with his life, yes; even with the ups and downs, the ins and outs. He’s happy with his success. But is that  _ real _ happiness? It’s at that moment that he feels a warmth pressing into his palm. Another palm.

“Pardon me,” Comes Misango’s voice, Max can’t bring himself to look at him. “I know I come on… strong, don’t feel obligated to answer.”

“I’m happy,” His reply is rushed, and then he takes a breath, wonders if Misango will pull his hand away. He doesn’t. “Not like you, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, well, s’just… you’re so at peace. And…” Max feels his own insecurities creeping in. An orphan without a family. Old and alone.

“Believe it or not,” Misango says after Max had been silent a while. “I wasn’t always this peaceful.”

Max finds that hard to believe.  _ Misango _ and  _ peace _ didn’t seem well separate.

“Especially when my ARMS first manifested. I was confused… and angry that I’d inherited the gene. Why couldn’t it have been someone else?”

Max could relate. Though he now knew how much he loved his ARMS and wouldn’t give them up for the world, it hadn’t always been that way.

“I suppose that was naivety,” He shakes his head, dark curls swishing as he does so. “But once I realized the honor and history that came with them, it soon vanished. My distress, that is.”

“I guess… happiness is relative, then. We can’t always be happy. Or we’d never realize the times when we  _ are _ happy.”

Misango halts his steps, and for some reason, Max gets his tug at his chest. He hopes it isn’t a heart attack. Those things were lethal for someone his age.

But Misango just gives a closed mouth grin, his radiant eyes do most of the smiling, and Max wants to touch the sloping corners of his mouth, wants to feel the septum ring in his nose between his fingertips. But of course, that isn’t very gentlemanlike.

Misango tells him, “Very well said,” and then squeezes his hand (which is surely sweaty by now) tighter. “You sir, have a way with words.”

He really doesn’t, Max thinks. But he can’t possibly turn down such a sweet compliment from such a sweet man, now can he?

* * *

 

Their week and a half in the village winds down fairly fast, much to Max’s displeasure.The events flash in his mind. A blur of far too many grins and laughs and sitting entirely too close to Misango. But it wasn’t like he could help it.

It was really such an amazing place, so serene and peaceful. It was a shame to go.

Luckily, the Misangans weren’t sending them off without a proper goodbye. On their last night, there would be a feast, not to mention an entire day of preparations especially for the ceremony. What a way to go.

Among things Max hadn’t expected at the beginning of the trip, a mellow Donna was one. She’d mellowed out, (Max guesses it was being away from technology) sorta like she was before… those  _ things _ happened. 

The animosity isn’t gone completely, she doesn’t  _ talk _ to him per se, but if Max cracks a joke, she’ll actually snort at it instead of scrunching her nose up like she usually does. Baby steps.

As for now, the two are on their way to get their faces painted. It was mandatory, by order of the chief.

Donna’s face is free of makeup. Max can clearly see the silver ring on her bottom lip. The bar in her eyebrow. She looks… different. But it’s a good different.

Of course, she catches him staring, because Max isn’t the most discreet person. When he stares, he  _ stares.  _ But the thing is, Donna doesn’t snap like she usually does.

“S’there something you’d like to say, Brass?” She lacks her usual bite. Something else’s there too. Dare he say, curiosity?

“Ah, uh, y-you look real nice today. N-not that you don’t look nice everyday!” Good grief, he should really learn to keep his mouth shut.

“Hm,” Donna says and— Is that a smile? “I’m not easily flattered, remember?” And with that, she strides off.

Max blinks. Was that… Progress? Maybe?

…

He dips his thumb into the blue paint, swipes it across the anxious girl’s forehead. Then nose. She giggles. Misango does along with her as he fans his fingers across her pudgy cheeks. She’s cuter than a button.

Max watches, feels a smile creeping onto his face. And when he finally realizes how weird it has to look, he puts a stop to it. Turns his gaze to Donna.

She’s sitting cross-legged too, ARMS folded over her chest scowling as a young boy asks to paint her face. Max hopes that she won’t be too nasty to the little lad, but surprisingly, she says, “Do your thing, kid.”

And then he’s on her, small hands to her cheeks, already smeared with paint. The Doctor flinches, no doubt she hadn’t been touched that way in a long while. But then she smiles softly and goes about painting the boy’s smiling face. Even the ice queen’s heart could be thawed, it seemed.

“Your turn,” A voice says, snaps Max clean out of his daze. And he realizes it’s Misango. A hand is outstretched for Max’s own. Oh lord.

“Uh, are ya sure— I mean… I don’t wanna impose?”

“It’s just face paint,  _ Brass, _ ” Donna says, but she’s still grinning at the little boy as she draws onto his chubby cheeks. “You aren’t scared, are you?”

It’s not the face paint, Max wants to say. It’s the man doing it. But he just swallows, scoots over in front of the captivating man causing him trouble.

Misango’s lips curl up again, and Max’s stomach drops, like he’s on one of those roller coasters, and next thing he knows, he’s smiling too. But it has to be one of those crooked, goofy grins Donna’s always telling him piss her off. The kind where his tooth gap is plain as day and his eyes are squinty, so much so that the wrinkles around them are visible. Not one of his dashing looks at all.

But Misango actually laughs. It’s quiet, but still a laugh. Then his hand is on Max’s cheek, his fingertips are cool and calloused. But gentle. Max fights to not lean into the touch. He fails miserably.

(He hasn’t even broken the paint out and Max’s already done for.)

Misango works swiftly, the cool paint tickles Max’s cheeks and forehead. He closes his eyes and savors the next few seconds of Misango’s fingertips ghosting over his face. It is glorious.

And it ends all too fast.

“Now,” Misango sits back, Max sure is grateful too. His chest was so tight, he could barely breathe. “You are a  _ real _ warrior.”

And because  _ he _ said that,  Max actually feels it in his soul. He believes it wholly.

Somehow, he and Misango have switched spots,(with painting, that is) which is beyond Max’s comprehension; between grinning like a natural born fool and suppressing the urge to touch his newly painted face, he’s not even sure how he can even focus on painting. And that’s it. He can’t.

By now, Donna and the young ones have left to go and get spiffy for the dinner. They’re alone. Which makes him even more aware of how close they are. (So  _ very _ close.)

Max is not usually this nervous. Just what on Earth is wrong with him? He’s  _ Max Brass, _ smooth, calm, collected.  _ Cool.  _ Not scatterbrained and fidgety.

“Are you going to begin?” Misango asks lightly, eyes still closed shut. It’s a gentle nudge in the right direction. But lord, does it drive Max’s blood pressure sky high.

“Ah, y-yeah,” He jabs his thumb into the green paint. Starts dotting it at Misango’s under-eye. It doesn’t look half bad. That is, until he dips his fingers back into the paint, draws broad strokes down his cheeks, and realizes it’s yellow. Not green.  _ Oh. _

Max winces, at which Misango coolly replies, “Turn your misgivings into masterpieces.”

He could be a poet, Max thinks.

He isn’t very satisfied with Misango’s end result, the colors don’t really match. And it’s kind of clumpy. But Misango only shakes his head (again with the bouncy curls,  _ gah _ ) sagely when Max asks, “Doncha wanna check’n see what it looks like?” He trusts him that much?

Misango answers his internal question with, “Perhaps with this dinner… You will see your worth to yourself… and to me.”

Max is speechless. For one, he’s never told Misango about his humble beginnings. Secondly, was Misango implying something… more?

Vaguely, the reading from earlier comes to mind. Was it fate that he was here? Fate that he was learning more and more about this man? Learning more about himself too?

That’s when Misango presses his forehead to Max’s. Then his nose, which isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as Max thought it would be considering they both had rather large noses. Misango’s septum ring tickles Max’s nose when he takes a deep breath. Max can’t reciprocate it, of course. He’s barely taking  _ shallow _ breaths as is.

But he recognizes the gesture. It’s common amongst the Misangans.  _ Hongi. _ An elder had explained to him it meant intimacy. Unity. Acceptance. Was Misango letting him know all of those things?

He isn’t sure, but there aren’t many things that he  _ is _ sure of when Misango is around. He decides that he’s fine with that. Maybe somethings were best left understood. But he does understand his own feelings for Misango. The fact that this amazing person sitting with his knees flush against his own trusted him. And for Max, that was plenty enough.

So, he tears his gaze from Misango’s dark lashes, (which is a challenge on its own), breaths in… One, two, three… Then exhales all of his worries.

Of course, when they pull away, both of their foreheads and noses are an absolute mess of paint. Misango bites back a laugh as he takes Max’s hands in his own, and says to him with paint caked all over his face, “I am glad that you came,” He pauses. “I’m… happy.”

Max can wholeheartedly agree with that statement.

**Author's Note:**

> im a whore for comments :'')) [art](http://purplecrystalgem.tumblr.com/post/171464220877/mask-off-plays-in-the-background) if you're curious.


End file.
